


WHISPER ME (the wheel of fortune)

by Mikkeneko



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caleb Widogast's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, I wanted them to kiss but Caleb was having none of it, M/M, Minor Angst, Molly does ASMR, Molly makes it better, Mollymauk Tealeaf Lives, Philosophy, Pre-Slash, Someday though, They're gonna kiss, and Molly respects Caleb's boundaries too much to press
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: After a harrowing day leaves Caleb on the edge of a breakdown, Molly wants to help. Caleb agrees under one condition: no touching. Thankfully Molly's up to the challenge.





	WHISPER ME (the wheel of fortune)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Widomauk Week, Day 3: Tarot.
> 
> So this got surprisingly philosophical for a fic idea which at its core was "do you think Molly could do ASMR?" I'd had the idea for a while, of Molly using his cards to generate that sort of soothing white noise for Caleb, and the Widomauk Week prompt "Tarot" seemed like the right time to write it out.
> 
> A lot of the fills for this prompt focused on The Lovers (naturally). But for some reason the Wheel just seemed to me to be a perfect card to sum up what Molly and Caleb have in common: to break free of the destinies written for them by others, and choose their own way.

 

Caleb huddles in the little cabin on the ship headed very, very quickly away from Darktow. There's one wide bed meant to be shared rather than two cots, but at least it offers some privacy for Caleb to shake himself apart.

It has been a  _ day. _

Not his worst day, certainly; not even in the top ten. But in the past forty-eight hours he has pulled a nervewracking all-nighter to translate Avantica's cipher, been called out and confronted on the deck of her ship, called fire between them, been smashed with clubs, shot in the back with arrows, plunged himself into the nightmare of the burning ship and been tackled flat on the ground as soon as he picked himself up again. The wait in shackles for the Plank King's judgment was excruciating, as the guards wouldn't let Caduceus heal him for all that the firbolg had pleaded.  Caleb had endured. He's good at enduring.

And now, they are away. Out of danger from Avantica, from the pirate king, from the racking dread that has hung over their party since they met her. It should feel like a relief but instead he feels like he is shaking apart. Like an gnomish engine whose switch is stuck in the 'on' position, whose pistons keep striking even when the oil has burnt to sticky tar in the teeth of the gears. Jester healed him, Caduceus healed him, his wounds are gone but a phantom pain lingers all the same. 

He wants to sleep. He  _ needs _  sleep, he knows it, but he's wound too tight. Perhaps Nott's flask would help numb the buzzing in his head, perhaps some of Clay's tea would relax him, perhaps some of Molly's skein would take him out of this painful body... but the thought of taking drugs, eating or drinking  _ anything, _  makes him feel violently sick to his stomach.

A knock on the door pulls him from his reverie, the impact of the sound against his ears making him flinch as though the rap had landed directly on his skin. The door scrapes open and a head pokes in, and it's Molly. Of course it's Molly. They've been rooming together ever since they came on the ship and Fjord got the captain's cabin; why shouldn't the tiefling come into his own room, just because Caleb is on the verge of falling to pieces?

"Hey," the tiefling greets him and Caleb can't help the flinch at the sound of his voice. "Oh. Sorry. Do you need to be alone? I was just --"

"No, it's fine," Caleb says quickly before Molly can retreat. Molly's presence hurts, scrapes against his raw nerves... but being alone isn't doing him any favors either, and of all of the rest of the Nein right now, Molly is the one he least minds seeing him in this state.

Strange as it is, Molly has become the one person in the Nein he is least afraid of. Yasha is an enigma, dangerously so. Beau knows enough about him that she could destroy him in a moment. Nott, entirely by accident, could do the same. Fjord, as leader, could eject him from the Nein if he found out the kind of man Caleb truly is. Jester... it's not so much that he fears Jester herself, as he lives in cold terror of the pain of losing her friendly affection, of shattering her sunny innocence. Caduceus, for all his easygoing charm, is terrifyingly perceptive and silently judging.

But Mollymauk. Molly, of all the Nein, might be the most truthful when he claims not to care about Caleb's past. Mollymauk has a philosophy of rejecting the past to which he has proven truly dedicated. Caleb cannot share in his casual dismissal of the past, but he can appreciate what it means for  _ him _ . Over time, he has come to believe that even if the worst should happen and the truth come out Molly will stand by him, simply because he  _ needs  _ to reject Caleb's past to justify avoiding his own.

The fact that he himself has gotten foolishly attached, childishly infatuated -- that's no one's problem but his own. He knows better than to let such sentiment cloud his judgment.

_ Mostly. _

"I am sorry if I am not good company right now," Caleb mumbles. 

"It's been a hell of a day," Molly says. "For all of us, but especially for you."

Caleb nods. He is grateful for the consideration, but he can't bring himself to speak past the lump in his throat.

The tiefling studies him. "Why don't you get some sleep?" he suggests gently.

"I can't." Caleb shakes his head, jerky and painful. His hands clench and release, and either way is painful. "I... I can't. It's too much, I can't let go."

"You're wound up so tense it hurts just looking at you," Molly observes, and Caleb ducks his head to the side. Molly studies him thoughtfully. "How about a nice backrub? I'd like to help, if you'll let me."

Caleb's breath catches in his lungs. A part of him wants it, wants it so badly, Molly's hands and his touch and his undivided attention on  _ him. _  But as nice as the idea sounds  _ in general, _  he knows that right now it would be a disaster. Even the air feels hot and heavy and oppressive; even his familiar clothes feel inflamed and obtrusive against his skin. Someone else's hands on that skin... he can't bear to imagine it.  "I -- thank you, that's very kind, but right now touch is, touch is..."

Molly nods. "I understand," he says, and the way he says it makes it sounds like he really does. "Hmm. There's something else I'd like to try that may help?"

Caleb shivers. He's wound so tight every muscle feels like a taut spring, every tendon like a wire strained to the breaking point; he's exhausted, but he knows he won't sleep. He hurts and he'll try almost anything if it would  _ help. _ "I... I can't --"

"No touching, I promise." Molly raised both hands in a solemn promise. "For what I'm thinking of trying, I would not have to touch you at all. It's just something I learned back in the carnival, to help relaxation and sleep."

Caleb considers. His head nods forward for a moment as fatigue overcomes him, but jerks back up with a hiss as the uncautious movement sends his neck muscles screaming. "Okay," he says at last, when the flare dies down a bit. "Ja, okay. Whatever you want to do... as long as there is no touching."

"Perfect," Molly says. He stands up and Caleb can't help the tiny flinch at the sudden unfolding movement. In response the tiefling's movements slow, become flowing and deliberate, yet casual. "Sit tight. I'll be right back, I need to get a few things."

True to his word the tiefling is only gone for a few minutes before he returns, an array of obscure boxes and pouches bundled under his arm. He sets them on the bed and begins moving around the room, turning down the gas lamps until the illumination is low and steady, barely more than candlelight. "Just setting the scene a bit," Molly assures him in answer to his inquiring look.

"What is it you are going to do?" Caleb asks, his curiosity piqued. "Some kind of ritual magic?"

Molly shrugs. "Not magic in the way you and Nott practice it, I don't think," he says. "Its own special type of magic, maybe. I don't know that there's a name for it, it's just something I picked up in the carnival... It doesn't work for everyone, I've found. It's about a fifty-fifty chance it'll do something for you. But I figure it's pretty harmless; if it doesn't work you'll be no worse off than you are, and I'll be no worse off than looking like a bit of a fool. Which I'm used to."

Caleb manages a little chuckle. "No more a fool than I," he says.

"Fools together, then." Lighting arranged, Molly lays out a few mysterious pouches nearby, then sits down crosslegged on the bed. "Turn to face me, will you? There's a dear. I want you to focus on me for the next bit. Listen to the sound of my voice, look at the light in my hands."

"What --"  _ light, _  Caleb is about to say, but the next moment there  _ is _  a light in Molly's hands, sprung into existence like the first moment of the moon in the sky, and his attention is captivated.

It's a glass orb, he realizes after a moment of childlike staring, produced out of Molly's pocket or sleeve by sleight of hand. A simple trick but surprisingly effective for all that. Hard to tell whether it's glowing with its own inner reflective light from some cantrip, or simply reflecting the light around it.

Molly twists his hand and the orb dips and dances, from his fingers down his palm down his arm and back over his forearm. The ball of light runs up the back of his hand and dances over his fingers, a dozen little pinpricks of reflected lamplight shining in the heart of the glass. The tiefling catches it on the tips of his fingers and holds it up for a moment, moves it slowly to one side, then another. Caleb finds himself entranced by the slow, deliberate movement, the way the light blooms and fades from one curved edge of the orb to the other.

"Just keep watching the light," Molly murmurs, the cadence of his voice even and rhythmic. Caleb is glad enough to oblige. "Just let your mind... drift, let the day go, let all of the fears and hurts that haunt you drain away. You can pick them up again later, but for now... it's all right to put them down."

Molly's voice is generally nice to listen to, Caleb has found; even when he's being deliberately obnoxious, mocking and braying, there's a lilt to his voice that is pleasant to his ear. When he actually makes an effort -- like he is now -- his voice melts into warm honey in the air, running down from Caleb's ears to his brain like warm wax down a candle. 

"Now." Molly tosses the orb casually in the air, and for a flash of an instant Caleb is afraid it will break -- but instead it follows the same path as before, rolling up his arm and over his shoulder and down the other arm to his fingers, weaving seamlessly up and under his wrist to flutter in his fingers. Molly lowers the glass orb to the flat surface in front of him and lets it go with a little  _ twist _  of his wrist; the glass ball spins in place, wobbling slightly from one side to another but mostly staying in one spot. It lets out a faint ringing sound as it does so that hangs in the air, a sweet pure note that sounds like the chime of a bell.

The chiming sound lingers in the air, fading out and then returning, and Caleb is focused so hard on picking it out of the quiet that he starts when another noise joins it, a sudden  _ shrrr _  like the rapid beating of a bird's wings. He transfers his gaze back up to Molly and sees that the tiefling has produced his Tarot deck from somewhere, and is shuffling it rapidly from one hand to another in a dazzling waterfall of cards.

The sound trips over Caleb like the brush of a feathered wing over his skin, soft wingtips sweeping one-two-three-more through his ears and into his brain. He inhales sharply as an unexpected sensation rises in response; a powerful tingling sensation runs up his spine and crests at the crown of his head, like his hair is trying to stand on end. It feels a little like static, like the heavy fuzziness of the air when working with lightning, but without the promise of painful shocks and violence.

"It's all in the shuffle you know," Molly says, and he's speaking in a tone of voice Caleb has never heard before; barely above the level of a whisper but with the music of his voice fully present, without any of a whisper's sharpness. He continues to bridge and fall the deck of cards, the  _ shhrrr shhrrr  _ sound continuing and mingling with his voice, rising and dropping in time. 

"That's what gives the cards their power, the chance to channel something of the universe's will through a bit of pasteboard and paint. When you shuffle you can let yourself open to the universe, if you want; let destiny flow into you and down your arms and out your fingertips and nudge the cards, just  _ so, _  to pick wonder and meaning out of randomness." 

Molly chuckles, folding the deck back in one hand for an instant before he fans the deck out  in an S shape across his forearms and the backs of his hands, following the same path as the orb from before, each card perfectly spaced and aligned. "Or if you want, you can say fuck destiny and make the cards say whatever  _ you _  want them to say, picking and placing the right one here and there without your mark noticing. Like so." He folds the cards back up again with a  _ zwip _  that pierces right through Caleb's head and undoes a knot in his brain, and holds one up without looking at it. "The Wheel."

Caleb studies the card. Dominating the picture is a perfect circle divided by eight spokes, obscure symbols at each point. But the circle is stylized as the wheel of a sailing ship like the one they're on, with geometric waves and clouds in the background behind them, and the figure of a woman curled around the wheel. She looks a little like Avantica, dark skin and a tricorn hat, except that her curly hair is black. Her face is hidden from this angle but her posture is caught in the middle of a turn, looking over her shoulder at the watery horizon. The woman is either frightened or excited, it's hard to tell which, but mostly surprised.

"What," Caleb is moved to ask. His voice comes out harsh, breaking the hypnotic spell Molly's voice and the shuffling cards had laid over the room, and he regrets it immediately. But he's committed now, so he clears his throat and asks "What does it mean?"

"Volatility. Unpredictability. An opportunity taken that throws all plans into chaos and doubt. The derailing of an outcome once thought inevitable, opening up the future to other possibilities. It's not considered a particularly positive card compared to most of the other Major Arcana," Molly shrugs as he slips it back into the deck and resumes his shuffle, "since for some reason most people don't like chaos and uncertainty in their plans. But I like it."

Caleb thinks of the moment on the deck that day, the tipping point when he had resolved that he must act. That even if he opened the door to terrible catastrophe, it was worth it for the chance to avert an even worse doom bearing down on them now. "Yes," he says. "I can see why."

Molly shuffles again, and Caleb shivers as the sound cascades over him. It seems to shake loose the tension that had been locked in his muscles, and now that he's spoken once it's easier to find his voice again. "But then why bother with divination and other tools to see the future, if all you want to do is avoid your destiny?" he ventures. "Doesn't that rather defeat the point?"

"Not at all," Molly says. "It's always better to scout the territory before rushing in, don't you think? The point isn't to refuse walking down the road, but getting to pick your own path."

Caleb considers that. "So you really believe in all these fortune-telling arts?" he says. Even after months of acquaintance, he isn't sure how much Molly  _ really _  believes and how much is his favored spinning bullshit. "Cards, crystal balls, palm reading, the whole nine yards?"

"Mm, most of it's a show, but sometimes real mystery shines through," Molly says with a small, sly smile. Then he shrugs. "Palm reading isn't so good for telling the future, because it's static. No room for that random element. But it can tell you much about the past and present."

"How so?"

Molly finishes his shuffle, sliding the cards together into a stack, then sets it carelessly aside and turns to face Caleb head-on. "I'll show you," he says. "Hold out your hands."

Caleb hesitates, then slowly releases his clutch on his one sleeve and begins to inch his hand outward. "You aren't going to --" he begins, and Molly is quick to reassure him. "No touching, I know."

Even so Caleb can only bring himself to raise one hand; the other stays close to his chest, feeling as though his insides will spill out of him if he doesn't hold them tight. Molly doesn't seem to mind; he brings up both his hands to bracket Caleb's own, left above and right below. He never quite touches, but he moves his hands back and forth until Caleb swears he can feel  _ something; _  a tingling, an energy that washes over his shaking hand like water. Maybe it's the tiefling heat that radiates from Molly's skin; maybe there's a lingering aura of magic. Maybe it's just the motion of the air from Molly's movements that he feels, or maybe it's something else.

"The hand is a roadmap of a person's history," Molly says, his voice soothing and rhythmic, the old showman's patter. "If I had never met you before in my life, I'd still be able to tell much about you from your hands. For instance." He draws a line in the air above Caleb's ring finger, a tingling chill following in the wake of his fingertip. "Calluses, here, many years old, tell me that you are -- or were -- a scholar. Many people can write, but few hold a quill for long enough to leave its mark."

He moves down to the palm, his hand hovering over the nicks and scars that eat into the outside edges of his palm. "But that was a long time ago. Since then you've fallen on hard times. Over the pen callus are others, scars from cuts that became infected and didn't heal cleanly. Broken bones that didn't heal quite right. Dirt ground into rough rope burns. The hand of a man who's been living rough, and for a long time.

"You've spent time in prison," he says blandly, and Caleb flinches as Molly's fingers twirl a little in the air, sweeping over the circular scars around his wrists. He knows his skin shows marks from where manacles had been worn long enough to chafe and bite, for long enough times that the wounds had scarred instead of healing clean. But Molly doesn't speculate, doesn't try to guess  _ why _ , and instead moves on to the next point. "Bite marks on your nails. A sign of persistent anxiety and stress. You have much to fear, even if that fear is only in your own mind. But combined with the scars I'm inclined to say that it's not. You've been in great danger in the past, and you fear that you will be again."

Caleb swallows against a dry throat. "Aren't you supposed to be reading my destiny in the lines of my palm, or something?" he mumbles. "Life line, fate line, that sort of thing?"

Molly shrugs a little and brings his hands around, cupping both palms together under Caleb's as though his hand is a book he can spread open to read. He stares intently at Caleb's palm and Caleb feels a prickling chill wash up his arm, rolling through his shoulders to his face.

He spends so much time avoiding notice; he spends so much time flinching from touch. But he's still human enough to crave the touch he denies himself, and he's realizing now that a part of him was just as parched for  _ notice. _  How badly he'd wanted someone to look at him, to  _ see him, _  to see past the layer of protective grime and see him for what he truly is. (And somehow, someone, accept him all the same.)

He's gone to great lengths to avoid being looked at. But Molly's looking now. And -- as bizarre as this whole pantomime has been -- he doesn't seem to dislike what he sees.

"Supposedly the path of your life can be charted in the lines," Molly says finally. "The course of your body, your mind and your heart, all crossed by the line of fate that drives me. But whatever designs were marked on your body at birth, they've been muddled and obscured and chipped off by the years you've lived and the things you've seen and the choices made for you -- your own or others. Whatever destiny you were meant for, Caleb Widogast, you've long since cast it off. You're off the map now, my friend."

He offers the last with a smirk, lifting his head to meet Caleb's eyes, and Caleb feels his heart rise and beat faster when he meets that crimson gaze. He's too exhausted now to parse out what he's feeling; is it joy? Fear? Relief? Desire?

Whatever it is, it's too much for him to process now. After that one intense moment of locking eyes, he nods and drops his gaze.

"That is good news," he mumbles, and Molly chuckles quietly in agreement.

"The best way to be," he says with a smile. He tilts his head and looks Caleb over, sees the way he's sagging against the bed. His voice grows gentle. "Do you think you can sleep now?"

Caleb considers it. He's still tired, he's still in pain. But the relentless pounding energy that had pushed him on and on past his limits has gone, his limbs are heavy, and he feels loose and easy in his skin. "Yes," Caleb says, surprising even himself.

"Get some sleep, then," Molly encourages him. Caleb arranges himself on his half of the bed as Molly unfolds from the floor and gathers up his deck from where it had been discarded beside him. He circles round to his own side of the bed, snuffing out every lantern in the room except the one directly over his pillow, and Caleb closes his eyes as Molly begins to lay out the deck on the bed in front of him.

He falls asleep to the waterfall sound of cards shuffling in his ear.

 

* * *

 

 

~end.


End file.
